


In the Shadow of the Empire, the Sun

by Alley_Skywalker



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cultural Differences, Enemies to Lovers (kiiind of), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pining, Politics, Princes & Princesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-17 14:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15463644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/pseuds/Alley_Skywalker
Summary: Prince Valentyn is looking forward to two things during his diplomatic visit to Tarlahae: signing a peace treaty that will reconcile their countries and avoid them being swallowed up by the encroaching Empire and a possible trip to the sea. Prince Enjin did not exactly factor into his plans.





	In the Shadow of the Empire, the Sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Prince Valentyn feels very young as he stands next to his father’s special envoy at the city gates of Nirishtahlan, Tarlahae’s beautiful capital by the sea, with the entirety of the Yukraian delegation at his back. He feels giddy and anxious all at once. The city is a sensory overload even from beyond the tall, grated gates – crowded, bustling, smelling of freshly roasted pork and beef, overflowing with color. If he concentrates hard enough, Valentyn can almost smell the salt of the sea. As a child he had dreamed of going to the shore and seeing the massive body of water, larger than any lake, that seemed to only exist in books. But now that the peace negotiations with Tarlahae are going well, he may well get to see it.

Valentyn feels Taras Beliy’s eyes on him and squirms inwardly, knowing the special envoy, as well as every diplomat in the delegation, will be watching him and just waiting to report to his father if he steps out of line. It feels terribly odd to feel so free and know oneself to be completely at the mercy of the older, more experienced men around him.

 _“It is time you experienced a diplomatic endeavor,”_ his father had said before sending him off. _“Listen to Pan Beliy, listen to the councilors around you. Do not get into trouble.”_ For all that it had been said kindly enough, Valentyn knows it to have been a warning.

Tarlahae and Yukraia have disputed various territorial claims for decades, sowing bitterness and unrest in the region. His father says it is all Tarlahae’s fault. Valentyn wonders sometimes if that is an unfair thing to say. He knows very well that it would be in Yukraia’s interests to acquire one of Tarlahae’s ports. He also knew that intermarriage and mixing of their populations along the border is common. 

His history lessons have taught him that there have been lengthy periods of time when Yukraian sovereigns ruled the entire region, and that the Tarlahae people were mainly resistant to such rule. It would not surprise Valentyn if his father has intentions to eventually be a ruler of both Yukraia and the Tarlahae lands and this treaty is only a minor deterrent – a temporary precaution against the looming threat of the encroaching Empire.

Severoslava is coming for all of them, or so says the Advisor for War. _This is not the time for conflict with our neighbors._

As the heavy, iron gates grind open, Valentyn straightens to greet the Tarlahae welcoming party.

At the front of their column, flanked by an honor guard and with two diplomats in civilian dress at his back, is a young man of about Valentyn’s age, his dark wavy hair covering his forehead, and the rest of it braided out of his face. Valentyn is instantly struck by his eyes – large and dark, smolderingly expressive. He has the high, prominent cheekbones of the Tarlahae people, and charming dimples which must get deeper and more prominent when he smiles. Valentyn takes a breath.

“Your Highness, Pan Beliy, welcome to Nirishtahlan. My mother awaits you.”

Beside him, Beliy bows and Valentyn, feeling more uncertain and unprepared than ever, bows his head in a sign of reserved respect. “Prince Enjin, I thank you for the honor,” Beliy says and Valentyn bites the inside of his lip. Her Majesty had not, of course, come to greet them, but she has sent her Heir and that is reason enough to know that Tarlahae is serious about this peace treaty

 _Do not get into trouble,_ his father had said and Valentyn, instinctively, proceeds to look anywhere but at Enjin the entire way to the palace.

*

The Tarlahae Sovereigns, whose title is translated into _King_ or _Queen_ in the diplomatic _lingua franca,_ in part because no one cares to memorize the lengthy native word and in part for the international standardization of titles -- similarly, both Valentyn and Enjin carry the diplomatic title of _Prince_ despite both their native titles meaning simply _Heir –_ could be a man or a woman. The dynastic succession Tarlahae is transferred directly from parent to eldest child, regardless of sex. Currently, Enjin’s mother, Queen Chulpan, sits the Tarlahae throne. Valentyn has heard all his life that she is a striking beauty, a veritable goddess upon an ornate throne. 

_Everything about the Tarlahae court will be opulent – from the Queen to the ridiculous costumes of the page boys,_ Valentyn remembers Pan Beliy telling him on their journey. _They seek to overwhelm._ But even this admonition could not quite prepare Valentyn for the richness of fabrics and vibrancy of color in the palace and court. The women wear colorful flowing dresses, the fabrics lighter and airier than back home, the sleeves of their gowns sheer silk and their forearms decorated with multiple gold or bejeweled bracelets. Some of the women wear long trails of fabric, similar to vails, but starting from the back of the head and covering mostly the back of the woman’s head, her neck and her back. These are attached to the women’s hair with ribbons which weave into the intricate, thick braids that are in style in Tarlahae. The men’s clothing is perhaps even more ornate, with embroidered waistcoats, long jackets, and kushaks. Yukraia has mostly adopted the fashions of the _–stadts_ among the nobility, with only some exceptions and holdovers, but Tarlahae fashion remains mostly resistant to the fitted tailoring and more reserved color combinations of their western neighbors and the Empire. 

During the wait in the antechamber of the throne room before their first audience, Valentyn takes particular notice of the engravings on the walls, the tapestries and carpets hung in the same fashion and frequency as one would hang paintings back home. The repeating themes of the décor are water, vines, horses, and feasts centering on a dish Valentyn concludes must be plov. The horses he can relate to. 

The afternoon audience goes by in a daze, with pleasantries and gift exchanges. The Queen is indeed a beauty, the long skirts of her golden dress spread out over the thrown and the carpeted floor just before and beside her. Her thick dark hair is woven into elaborate braids, which are decorated with gold, opals and rubies. Enjin stands at her right and the Tarlahae Advisor for War on the left, his epaulets covered with stars and moons to designate his high rank. Valentyn thinks, almost involuntarily, that Enjin gets his looks from his mother.

As they leave the throne room, Beliy says gruffly under his breath, “This was all useless, take no heed, Your Highness. The ball tonight will set the real tone.”

Valentyn looks behind him just as they exit through the oak double-doors of the audience chamber and finds that Enjin is still looking at them – at him – instead of paying attention to what his mother is whispering to the Advisor for War. Valentyn, desperate to seem polite, gives him a small smile, just with the corner of his mouth and receives a nod in return, the tone of which he cannot quite decipher.

 

*

Valentyn considers carefully what he is to wear to the ball. He supposes that it would be better to fit in, to emphasis similarities with local sensitivities than to contrast them. He imagines Beliy will have a different approach, but Valentyn has always attempted to keep his own counsel and not be too influenced by his father’s advisors against his better judgement. If his father wants him to begin coming into his own, he will need to start making independent decisions, at least about things like clothing. 

Replicating local styles is difficult by default. Valentyn simply does not have the same selection of fabrics, cuts and patterns. But he did have some sense of what to expect before coming to Tarlahae and had made his packing arrangements accordingly, to accommodate for options in colors brighter and bolder than he would typically wear back home. Here, tailcoats and waistcoats that he would only wear for a daytime event back home, would fit in perfectly well at a ball. 

Which is how Valentyn ends up in Beliy’s rooms at ten-to-eight in a canary-yellow waistcoat and a matching embroidered tailcoat, an emerald cravat that matches the buttons and embroidery on the tailcoat, longer-style breeches, and shoes with bejeweled buckles. 

Beliy and the diplomatic secretaries in their formal dark blues, blacks and silver-greys, look at him with some puzzlement. “Are you quite certain, Your Highness, that this is wise?” Beliy ventures cautiously. 

Valentyn is not certain of anything. Still, he says, “Quite. Let us not be late”

*

At least, Valentyn thinks, the dancing is the same as back home and the wine is good. He even gets some compliments on his coat. 

The first hour of the ball goes well. Beliy slithers off to play cards with some of the Tarlahae courtiers, the diplomatic secretaries, most of them young, carry on with the ladies, and Valentyn makes himself useful in paying respectful tribute to the Queen and partaking in the dancing. He also studies his surroundings: the ballroom is lit by large torches on the walls and overhanging chandeliers with hundreds of candles. The ceiling is one large mirror, which helps reflect the firelight and make the ballroom brighter. The wine seems to be either very bitter or very sweet with no in-betweens. The refreshments include a multitude of sea creatures, which Valentyn has not had the stomach to attempt. Choosing between an oyster, a shrimp, a scallop and what he assumes to be, going by a conversation he has overheard, to be an octopus, is too daunting. 

Some two hours in, Valentyn begins to truly relax. He is tipsy on the wine and the ladies prefer him for dancing, perhaps because they find him equally curious and unfamiliar. Valentyn feels vaguely that he should be doing something more _political_ but that is far more Beliy’s forte. The Queen seems to have disappeared from the festivities some time ago, the ballroom becoming livelier and more frivolous in her absence. Valentyn is in the middle of considering whether or not he should join some of the men at cards and see if he can cajole some of the Tarlahae diplomats into useful chit-chat, when he’s startled by a quiet voice beside him saying, “Has Your Highness tired of the dancing?”

Valentyn whips around an finds Enjin standing beside him, so close that their shoulders are almost touching. He is not certain if the lack of personal space is a cultural thing, or if Enjin is trying to make him uncomfortable on purpose. Somehow, he had forgotten that Enjin would be here as well. “Not at all,” Valentyn replies mildly, once he has managed to take in a breath. “Have you?”

“No, I’ve hardly danced, as it were. I was keeping my mother company.”

“Has Her Majesty retired?”

Enjin seems to consider this. “In part. She knows her presence constricts the courtiers. The negotiations may be difficult in the week to come. She wants everyone to have a good time beforehand.” 

Valentyn wonders if it is important information that the Queen expects difficult negotiations. Probably not. He puts on his most charming society smile and makes sure to make eye contact before tipping his glass and saying, “Let’s drink then to an easier negotiation than expected and a prosperous peace ahead.”

Enjin smiles and its far warmer than Valentyn could have expected. “I will drink to that.” He calls over a waiter and picks up a glass of wine, then a small plate with two fat, pink shrimp. He clinks his glass against Valentyn’s, drinks a long drink of the wine, and proffers the shrimp. “Have you tried one?”

“Not…yet.”

“Go on. They’re very good.”

Valentyn eyes the shrimp suspiciously. 

“I know you want to.” Valentyn doesn’t need to look up to hear the grin in Enjin’s voice. Still he hesitates and Enjin, with an overdramatic sigh, eats one of the shrimp himself, cartoonishly lifting it by the tail with two fingers and savoring every second of the performance he’s clearly putting on for Valentyn. For his part, Valentyn is mesmerized by the movements of Enjin’s mouth, the way his lips curl around the sea creature and suck it in, leaving only the tale behind. Feeling suddenly betrayed by his own body and turning bright red, Valentyn grabs the second shrimp and devours it almost without letting himself taste it, just to give himself something to do. 

“It’s not bad,” he admits after a pause. Then, another thought: “I did want to try it, for what it’s worth.”

“I know. I see how you look around and take everything in. It interests you.” 

Valentyn shifts uncomfortably. “It does not offend you?”

“Why would it offend me?”

A shrug. “That I find your culture…alien, in a way.”

Enjin laughs. “It would be odd if you didn’t. We have some clear differences. Which is why we should be two separate countries.”

 _Oh._ The sudden switch to politics is sobering and Valentyn mentally kicks himself for thinking that Enjin has just come here to make small talk with him and encourage him to try odd-looking fish. “Well, if we cannot agree on this treaty we will soon be one country again whether we want it or not. The Empire will make sure of it.” Valentyn cannot quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. He is not sure what he is bitter about exactly – the Empire or his own stupidity. 

“That thought compels another drink,” Enjin says, quite seriously, taking another drink. 

Valentyn itches to say something snide, like: _because you don’t want to be part of the Empire or because we will be one country?_ He decides against it. Instead, he says, “If we tried very much, we could even work out a trade deal. Your sea creatures and gemstones for our timber and minerals. Something of that kind.”

“At the very least the trade ban should be lifted,” Enjin says, nodding emphatically. “Last time this was done it was not as successful as everyone had hoped but that is because both our countries instituted preposterous tariffs. We cannot afford that this time.”

Well, at least they are on the same page. _Unless he’s lying to you_ , a nasty voice that sounds like Beliy croons in Valentyn’s head. He winces and pushes it aside. 

“Would you like to dance?” Enjin asks suddenly. 

Valentyn nearly drops his glass. He bites the inside of his lip, considering if this would be wise. But he has already made the mistake of consuming more alcohol than would be advisable. “Is it so that men dance with men here?”

Enjin has that smile on his face again that makes Valentyn feel incredibly self-conscious and giddy at the same time. “It’s only a dance, Your Highness.” 

Valentyn sets aside his glass and makes an overly formal and fancy bow, in hopes that doing something silly intentionally will make him less afraid of doing so _unintentionally._ It cannot do any harm. It is only a quadrille. 

The music is heady and Valentyn feels himself to almost be falling. Dancing with Enjin is odd at first – they cannot quite settle on who is the lead. But the more steps and patterns they complete together, the more they are in tune with each other and the easier and less awkward everything feels. They hold hands, they match each other’s angles, they make eye contact and laugh sporadically when one of them makes a mistake or strikes an especially magnificent pose.

It seems to Valentyn he could dance so forever. 

After, they get more wine and retreat to a corner. Enjin offers him a new food challenge in the form of caviar-filled egg and Valentyn, despite still being somewhat suspicious of the unfamiliar food, ends up eating two of these. He feels a strange freedom here, away from home, away from his father’s keen and constant watch, with someone who shares his station but does not seem to share any of his deepest insecurities. 

“Do you know what I want most out of this trip, other than the treaty?” Valentyn confesses at one point. 

“What?”

“To go to the sea. I could almost smell it when we were coming down. When I went on the balcony of my rooms tonight, I thought I smelled it again.”

“It is very close.” Enjin considers him. “If you would like to go, I could certainly take you. It can be just the two of us – no escorts, entourages.”

“That would be nice. But I do not know if my delegation would deem it quite proper.”

“Let them. You’re the Prince. All they can do is cautious and advise.”

He isn’t wrong, technically, and Valentyn is not about to explain that it does not quite work like that at his father’s court. Valentyn is still viewed as a child who needs watching by Beliy and his father’s other councilors. In fact, he spies a harried diplomatic secretary coming toward them just at that moment and thinks, _Seems they’ve lost sight of me for too long. To prove the point._ At least, it saves him from giving Enjin an answer. 

“Your Highness,” the diplomatic secretary says with a bow, which could be interpreted as for both Valentyn and Enjin but the man is looking only at Valentyn as though Enjin is not even there. “This is urgent.” He holds out a folded up note which has already been unsealed. 

Valentyn, irritated that he is being pulled away from his comfortable corner with Enjin, snatches the notes, opens it up, intending to find some frivolity—and nearly drops it as everything inside him constricts painfully. “When did this happen?” he asks the secretary quietly, in their own language. 

“Last night. The news has only now reached the city.”

Valentyn glances over his shoulder at Enjin who is attempting to feign disinterest to give them some semblance of privacy. If this border raid happened only the other night, it is unlikely that Enjin was already in possession of the news at the start of the night. _Unless he knew ahead of time it would happen._ Valentyn bites his lip so hard he can taste blood. “Tell Pan Beliy I will be there directly.” 

“Is everything alright?” Enjin asks once they are again alone. 

Valentyn surveys him for a long moment, desperately trying to decide within himself if this entire evening has been a lie. _Do not get into trouble,_ his father had said, and there he had been, cooing inwardly over the enemy’s prince and how genuine he seems and how attractive he is and all this time… 

“A matter of importance has come up,” Valentyn says, as coldly as he can. He thinks, with some disgust, that he can hear a hitch in his own voice. He disregards the confusion slowly creeping into Enjin’s face. “Please excuse me.”

*

The meeting with Beliy, the rest of the delegation, and hastily summoned Ambassador Ghrivnev, is tense and volatile. The room sways wildly from wanting to abandon the negotiations and leave Tarlahae immediately, to hopeful conjecture that perhaps the raid was not sanctioned. 

Valentyn is mostly quiet. His head has begun to hurt and the lines on the map spread out before him blur uselessly. He does not feel like he has a right to say anything. He feels guilty and conflicted. While he was dancing with the Prince of Tarlahae, two of Yukraia’s villages were being attacked by regional, self-organized Tarlahae militias. People had been plundered, men killed, women assaulted, while he had made plans to go to the sea with the man who was their attackers’ Prince. 

His body decides to add nausea to the headache. 

“What do you think, Your Highness?”

“I’m sorry?” Valentyn looks up at Ambassador Ghrivnev. He had not anticipated that anyone would bother asking for his opinion and perhaps they would be correct not to. 

“Should we abandon the treaty? It seems a shame after so much hard work. And so little evidence that the militias acted with state support.” 

Valemtyn rubs a hand over his face. He needs to make a decision. It is his right and his duty to do so as his father’s representative and heir. “Has Pan Beliy voiced a final opinion?” Valentyn asks, for the record. 

Beliy spreads out his arms. “So much work has gone into setting these negotiations. We will have to address this, but we don’t have enough evidence to justify closing the negotiations without at least giving Her Majesty a chance to explain.” 

“That seems reasonable. Let us wait until tomorrow. We will pull out if more egregious news come or if we think we are being lied to.” Valentyn stands and everyone in the room gets to their feel as well. He feels the immense pressure of their expectations on him and it takes all the energy that remains to him to walk calmly from the room instead of running. 

*

Naturally, Valentyn gets lost. 

He is too much in his own thoughts, the palace too unfamiliar, that he takes a wrong turn from the diplomatic conference suit to his own rooms and doesn’t notice until he is hopelessly lost. He wanders around almost blindly until a set of ornate doors lead him into an overgrown interior courtyard. 

Tired, frustrated, and hopelessly clueless about how to get back to where he needs to be, Valentyn sits down on a garden bench under a large, old tree, with thick branches and a canopy of large leaves. The courtyard is silent and Valentyn’s thoughts travel in an unorganized fashion from the treaty, to Enjin, to the raid, to the Empire, to his father, and back to the treaty, all in a loop of confusion and suspicion. 

The sound of doors opening somewhere above him make Valentyn perk up. He can hear voices as the speakers come out onto the balcony. They are speaking in the Tarlahae tongue so Valentyn cannot catch everything they are saying, but he quickly identifies the speakers as Enjin and the Queen. Intrigued, and desperate to know the truth about the raid on the border, Valentyn stays very still and strains to listen. 

Enjin is clearly upset. “Mother…jeopardize everything…we need this treaty.”

Queen Chulpan does not seem to be impressed. “Our people feel…They acted without my blessing, and you know this…” She speaks in most part too quickly and quietly for Valentyn to understand in a language not his own. Although he does catch his own name and understands that she is asking what they were speaking of at the ball. 

Enjin’s voice is clearer. “The treaty is important to Yukraia. Their Prince assures me.”

A scoff and some quiet reproach. 

“No," Enjin presses. "But I would hate to think that he decided that I knew of this raid. Especially, had I known, I would have insisted that it be stopped. We must apologize.” 

Their voices retreat as they leave the balcony and Valentyn notices that he has been holding his breath. He lets it out and feels s shameful sense of relief. _Enjin did not know. It was not a distraction!_ Not much of substance has changed. His people were still attacked, the treaty is still in peril. But now he can offer assurance to Beliy and the rest of the delegation, and his own father, if needed, that this raid had not been a provocation or other subversive plan. It was simply an unfortunate coincidence that had to be addressed. 

_And Enjin had been genuine._

*

Somehow, Valentyn manages to get back to his rooms. Somehow, he manages to get a few hours of sleep. Even more amazingly, he manages to sit through several hours of Beliy posturing and the Queen placating him in the morning negotiations. He also, for the most part, succeeds at not looking over at Enjin too often, who is clearly uncomfortable and unable to make proper eye contact. 

When they recess for the afternoon, Enjin corners him in the hall. “I must speak to you,” Enjin begins quietly, urgently. “I am afraid that you may have built up all sorts of conjecture about last night. I assure you most vehemently that everything I had said to you was true and that I was not attempting to mislead or distract you. You may have my word of honor on that.”

Valentyn makes a show of considering him carefully. He has decided he does not want Enjin to know his midnight conversation had been overheard. “It is what I would like to believe,” he says finally. “For the sake of the treaty…and the good time I had last night.” 

Enjin grins, relief creeping into his eyes. “Prince Valentyn, let me take you to the sea. As an apology and a sign of friendship.”

“What, just now?”

“Now.” He smiles and Valentyn has no recourse but to agree. 

*

Valentyn cannot imagine ever getting used to the crash of the sea. The roar of it makes something deep inside him curl with excitement and fear. Its vastness seems entirely incomprehensible, much like his feelings when he sees how Enjin’s olive skin glows in the sun.

“Are your people serous about making peace with mine?” Valentyn asks without looking at Enjin. It’s a perfectly valid question to ask, but somehow he is embarrassed by it.

“If _your_ people are serious about making peace with _mine_ ,” Enjin says and Valentyn is not certain if perhaps he is being toyed with. Enjin does appear to have far more experience than him in the matters of diplomatic manipulation.

“Well, I doubt my father would have agreed to all this if we were not serious,” Valentyn says a little sourly. “Despite your raids on our border villages.’

“The raids we do not condone,” Enjin says flatly. “But the people there are taught to be anxious from birth. Yukraia has too often impinged on our sovereignty.”

“And you have never infringed on ours?”

Enjin squints as though it pains him to think about this. “That was over three centuries ago. We were nearly one people then.”

“Many Yukraians still think that.” Valentyn kicks up a small sand storm with the toe of his boot. He thinks of some of the news that reach them from the Empire. Every new territory they acquire, they make claim to the people they have conquered. _We are all Slavan people!_ the imperial propaganda goes, _Neither of the far North icefields, nor of the Southern seas, nor of the Western –stadts. We belong as one nation!_ And there are some who believe that—and yet here they are: Yukraian and Tarlahae diplomats, desperate for a treaty that might help them avoid being swallowed up by the Empire. “If only it was so simple, I suppose,” Valentyn says into the tense silence. “Even at the border – half of them fight, half of them marry.” He can feel Enjin watching him, can feel every nerve in his body reacting to that sharp gaze. It is unsettling – having someone looking at him with such intensity. Someone who is probably smarter and is definitely better looking—

“Take off your boots.” 

Valentyn’s head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

“I want to show you something.” Enjin has already removed his boots and rolled up the bottoms of his pantaloons. He makes a beckoning motion and Valentyn, unable to help his curiosity, takes off his own boots and stockings, and follows Enjin to the edge of the water.

“If you drown me, doubtlessly the treaty will fail,” Valentyn says dryly.

“I won’t drown you.” The amusement in Enjin’s voice is unmistakable but warm.

The water against Valentyn’s feet is cold, but warmer than he is used to in the lakes and rivers back home. He wades further into the surf, following Enhin’s lead, trying to figure out what they are doing. Once they are thigh-deep in the water, Enjin stops. He stays very still for a few moments, then leans down and scoops something up out of the water. Slowly, he turns and shows it to Valentyn.

Valentyn stares in awe at the small creature perfectly cradled in the palm of Enjin’s hand. It looks like a gooey umbrella with a multitude of tentacles. Slowly, it changes color from pink to green to yellow.

“It is a jellyfish,” Enjin explains. “They come up here for the warm season. These particular ones are not dangerous.”

Valentyn holds out a hand and Enjin carefully places the creature onto it. it squirms and tickles and Valentyn, out of surprise at the odd feeling, drops it, rather clumsily. It hits the water and disappears under the white foam of the surf. Through the roaring in his ears, quite separate from that of the sea, Valentyn can hear Enjin laughing softly.

“So, you won’t drown me,” Valentyn says, overcoming his embarrassment at having fumbled a jellyfish. “Your plan was simply to poison me. I’ve read all about jellyfish—” he hasn’t, but he vaguely recalls the combination of _brightly colored creatures_ and _tentacles_ and _poisonous bite_ in some nature book or other. “—They bite when distressed and are quite deadly.”

Enjin only laughs harder. “I told you, these ones aren’t dangerous. They’re not poisonous and—and jellyfish don’t bite anyway. They sting.”

“Well that’s all very well and good, Your Highness, but why should I trust you?” Valentyn reaches down, scoops up some water and, in a fit of utter mischief, tosses it at Enjin.

The spray hits Enjin in the face and his eyes go wide for a moment. The neat curls on his forehead immediately flatten and stick. In a moment, he overcomes the initial surprise, grins, and splashes a handful of water back at Valentyn. “Oh, I don’t know, why would you?”

“I don’t!”

“You don’t!”

“Ha!”

Valentyn laughs as he dodges more sprays of water coming his way and returns the favor. They splash around in the surf for several minutes, their clothes soaking through entirely, all their previous efforts to keep dry forgotten.

Then, almost out of nowhere, a large wave crashes against the sand, rushing at them from behind. Valentyn only seeks it at the last second, too busy with their game to pay attention, and suddenly feels his feet start to go out from under him. A spike of fear flushes all the warmth from his chest as he imagines drifting out to sea to be eaten by the fishes and no body to ever be found and returned to his father. He flails wildly for balance—

His hands find a pair of shoulders, and hands press against his back, helping him resist the push and pull of the surf. Valentyn looks up and straight into Enjin’s face. They had never been so close before and the cold fear in Valentyn is suddenly replaced by an unbearable heat. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. His hands rest on Enjin’s shoulders and he cannot quite take his eyes off Enjin’s lips.

“You may know that I will not be the one to do you harm,” Enjin says, suddenly very serious, “because I do want peace.”

“With my people,” Valentyn breaths out.

“With you.”

Valentyn has never kissed anyone before. He does not know the first thing about kissing. But suddenly he is melting in Enjin to press their mouths together and to taste the caramel and coffee on his tongue. The roaring of the sea fades and the sun is scathingly hot on the back of his neck.

 _Do not get into trouble,_ , his father had said, Probably too late, Valentyn figures, if he’s kissing the enemy.

But then, perhaps, Enjin won’t be the enemy for much longer.


End file.
